The Edge of Dreams (Molly Murphy Mysteries Book 14) Read online

  “We thought that maybe her dreams would give us a clue as to what really happened that night and what memories she had locked away.”

  He stroked his beard in a characteristic gesture. “My dear Mrs. Sullivan, this is indeed perplexing, and if I were staying here longer I should be intrigued to visit this young girl for myself.”

  “Could you not find time to see her once before you go?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “My ship sails in two days and I have much business to take care of before I go. Besides, psychiatry is not the same as magic. One session with her would not produce any great revelations. It usually takes weeks of work and building confidence before results can be seen. But this friend of whom you speak. She is a trained alienist?”

  “She studied the interpretation of dreams this summer with Dr. Freud,” I said.

  He shook his head. “But she is a qualified doctor?”

  “No, I’m afraid she’s an enthusiastic amateur,” I said.

  “Mein Gott. This is not the sort of situation to be taken lightly. You are dealing with a fragile mind here. The wrong approach could snap a tormented mind like this. And if your friend makes a wrong interpretation of the dreams, if she fails to pick up a crucial key—what then?”

  “I agree with you, Doctor, which is why I sought you out.”

  The coffee had arrived and he poured in a generous amount of cream, stirred it, then took a delicate sip from his cup before wiping the line of cream from his mustache with his handkerchief. “Is there no one else your friend can turn to here?” he asked.

  “She didn’t think that doctors in America were taking the study of dreams seriously.”

  “That is true.” He took a macaroon from the dish and nibbled at it, again dabbing at imaginary crumbs. “There are even doctors in America who believe the study of psychology is the same as hocus-pocus. I am afraid treating the mentally sick here is still thought of the same way as the biblical driving out of demons. I could maybe find time to write letters for you, though. There are certain forward-thinkers I have encountered in my travels around the country.…”

  “There is an element of haste here, I’m afraid,” I said. “The police are involved. A brash young lieutenant thinks the girl is faking amnesia and wants to find her guilty of killing her parents and setting fire to their house. He has threatened to have her locked away in the Tombs until her memory returns.”

  “Mein Gott. This is barbaric. It must not be allowed,” Dr. Birnbaum said, raising his voice to the extent that Bridie and Liam looked up from their cookies. “You must explain to this man that amnesia after an event of great trauma is not unheard of. If the child witnessed her parents being burned to death, if she tried to save them but was not able to, of course her mind would refuse to acknowledge that such a thing ever happened.”

  “I’ve tried explaining,” I said. “Unfortunately he’s not the sort of man who listens, especially to a woman.”

  Dr. Birnbaum nodded. “I wish I could help you.”

  “My friend has written to Professor Freud in Vienna to ask for advice,” I said, “but naturally it will take time for the letters to reach Vienna, and for us to receive a reply.”

  Dr. Birnbaum stroked his beard again. “There might be somebody you could turn to. I recall that Dr. Otto Werner was here in New York earlier this year. I read about his visit in a scholarly journal. A brilliant young man from Munich, they say, who has been doing ground-breaking work with Professor Freud in Vienna. I don’t know if he is still here or if he has returned home. I wrote to him once at the New York address I had been given for him, inviting him to dine with me, but I received no reply. So I have to assume that he is no longer here. He would have been able to help you. Freud thought highly of him.”

  “Dr. Otto Werner,” I said, memorizing the name. “I’ll mention this to my friends and see if they can track him down.”

  “I understand that he has specialized in the study of the criminally insane,” he said. “He would be a useful witness if you feel the police might unjustly accuse this girl of a criminal act.”

  “At least we would know one way or the other,” I said. “That’s the hard part. Daniel says he’s encountered murderers who seemed sweet and gentle. And we still can’t explain how Mabel was found outside the house, apparently unscathed by the fire.”

  “You may never know.” He sighed. “But at least someone like Dr. Werner would have the training to ask the right questions.” He put down his coffee cup, then looked up sharply at me. “These dreams. It is always the same scenario, the same symbols?”

  “There is always the snake,” I repeated what Mabel had said. “A giant snake that looms over her.”

  “That is a typical monster representation for many people—the snake, symbol of evil and death. I would suggest it was the embodiment of her terror.”

  “So you don’t think that understanding her dreams can necessarily unlock her memories?”

  “I’m afraid not.” He stood up and extended his hand to me. “Now, I’m afraid I must take my leave of you. I have much to do—the carter will be coming for my trunks, and I still have many items to pack. One accumulates so much after a prolonged stay, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. But one more thing. Do you happen to still have Dr. Otto Werner’s address in New York?”

  He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a slim diary. He flicked through it. “Alas, no,” he said. “I think I discarded it when I last changed notebooks, since he had not answered my letter. But I recall it was not too far from here. Maybe on Ninth Street—close to Astor Place?”

  “Thank you,” I said. “You’ve been most kind. My friends can ask at the university. They should know if an eminent scientist is still in the city.”

  “I wish you luck with your endeavors.” He gave me a very Germanic bow, clicking his heels together.

  “And I wish you bon voyage,” I said.

  Eighteen

  I strode out, feeling annoyed and frustrated as we headed for home. If only I had sought out Dr. Birnbaum a few days earlier. Then at least he could have seen Mabel. He could have given us some suggestions. But now we were completely in the dark and going nowhere. And Dr. Birnbaum had indicated that dreaming about monster images was to be expected after a traumatic event, and it didn’t need interpreting after all. What’s more, he’d said that Gus could be doing more harm than good to Mabel. I wondered how she would feel about that, and whether she’d be able to walk away. I wondered if I’d be able to walk away, knowing that Mabel was in danger from the brash lieutenant as well as from her dreams.

  I hadn’t realized how fast I was walking until Bridie tugged at my skirt. “I can’t keep up with you,” she said, “and Liam is getting bounced around like a sack of potatoes.”

  I smiled and slowed down. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  “The girl who wasn’t burned in the fire?” she said. “You thought that doctor would help her, and he’s not going to?”

  “Exactly.” Then I remembered Mrs. Sullivan’s stern warning about involving Bridie in this kind of conversation. “But don’t worry.” I tried to sound bright. “I’m sure Miss Walcott will find another doctor who can treat Mabel and make her well again.”

  “I hope so,” Bridie said. “I bet she’s feeling scared right now. I would be. It’s hard when bad things happen to people in your family and you can’t do anything to stop them.”

  I knew she was thinking of her own father and brother, and again I felt guilty that I might be raising false hopes by taking her to see her cousins.

  “Watch out, Molly.” Bridie yanked back the buggy as an automobile came careering toward us at an ungodly speed, making horses neigh in terror in their shafts. It was all that the cabby could do to quieten one of them. I dreaded to think what would happen if automobiles ever became commonplace. Our lives would not be safe crossing the street. But Liam, his father’s son in every way, clapped his hands and made brm
m brmm noises, a delighted look on his face.

  As we neared the impressive gothic structure of the Jefferson Market building with its rough stone turrets, I realized that this would be a good chance to question the firemen. It was a Sunday morning, there were no fires. They’d be bored and eager to chat.

  “Bridie,” I said. “Do you think you can push the buggy back to my house by yourself from here? I just want to pop across the street to the market building.”

  “But there’s no market on Sundays,” she said, eyeing the deserted area with its empty pallets and blowing straw.

  “No, I don’t need to buy vegetables,” I said. “I need to have a word with a man—at the police station there,” I added, as I was sure the news would go straight back to Mrs. Sullivan. “I’m just sending a message to my husband, to remind him about Liam’s birthday party.”

  Even mother-in-laws couldn’t find fault in that, could they?

  I watched Bridie pushing the buggy down Patchin Place, then I crossed the street. Two firemen were polishing the bright red engine. Another was grooming one of the horses. I went up to them.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” I said, “but I’m wondering if your engine was called out to a fire on Eleventh Street about a month ago. Two people were burned to death in their beds.”

  “Oh, that one? Pretty bad, wasn’t it?” One of the firemen glanced across at his mate. “You were at Eleventh Street, weren’t you, Abe?”

  “The one at the beginning of August?” he said. “I sure was. One of the worst I’ve ever handled. Flames raging out of that place like the fires of hell. And those poor folks burned in their beds. Charred beyond recognition, they were.” He looked across at his fellow fireman. “You feel so bad when you can’t do your job and save them, don’t you?”

  The other man shook his head. “I heard there was no way. Those flames weren’t natural.”

  He looked at me with interest. “Relatives of yours, were they, ma’am?”

  “Good friends,” I said. “And their poor little girl is left an orphan.”

  “Oh, yes, the little girl,” the one called Abe said. “Ernie Howes was the one who found her. I remember him shouting out, ‘There’s a kid here. She’s unconscious. I can’t wake her.’ And we thought she’d inhaled smoke. But you know what? There wasn’t a mark on her. No soot. No burns. Nothing. It was the strangest thing. We had to get her out of that garden in a hurry as the bushes were already beginning to catch on fire. And when Ernie was carrying her out, she wakes up suddenly and doesn’t know where she is, and asks for her parents.”

  “You didn’t encounter anyone else there, did you?” I asked.

  “Only the two servants who escaped. They were in a pretty bad way and we had them taken to St. Vincent’s.”

  “But nobody else, maybe running away from the fire, or hanging around, watching it?”

  They looked at me strangely then.

  “You always get a crowd watching a fire,” the first one said. “But running away? Are you trying to suggest the fire was started on purpose?”

  “Isn’t that possible? Didn’t you say the flames were unnaturally fierce?”

  He sucked in through his teeth. “Yeah. Maybe. But to answer your earlier question. When we’re on our way to a fire, that’s all we’re thinking about. Horses at a flat-out gallop. Ringing that bell like crazy and the blood pounding in your head. You don’t have time to notice anything else.”

  That pretty much summed it up. They wouldn’t have had time to notice any clues. I could go to the ruins of the house myself, I supposed. But I doubted I would find anything there to show who might have started that fire. I remembered the ruins of my own house, and how it was impossible to find anything among the rubble. The only thing I had learned was that the firemen had had to carry Mabel out of the back garden in a hurry, as the bushes were already starting to burn. If she had killed her parents and started a fire, would she have stayed where she would also be in danger of being burned?

  I was halfway down Patchin Place when something the fireman had said struck me. The fire had been at the beginning of August. It couldn’t possibly be Daniel’s missing murder, could it? I toyed with this notion all the way home. If only I could somehow prove that the crime was carried out by an intruder, then I could save Mabel. I wasn’t at all sure how I could do this, but I’d give it a darned good try!

  Now that I had some small campaign plan, I felt better as I went into the house. Mother Sullivan looked up from the kitchen table, her apron and hands covered in flour.

  “Ah, there you are,” she said. “I became worried when you were gone so long.”

  “We met an old friend who is sailing home to Germany this week,” I said.

  “To Germany? My, but you have an assortment of diverse friends.”

  “He’s a doctor I met during my detective work,” I said. “A doctor of the mind. An alienist.”

  “Really?” She brushed flour from her apron. “Too bad he’s sailing for home, or he could have helped those friends of yours with their problem.”

  Sometimes she was rather too astute.

  “Whatever you’re baking smells wonderful,” I said.

  “It’s just a few more jam tarts, since they seem to be Liam’s favorites.” She smiled at him. “Not that he can really eat them yet, but he does love sucking out the jam.”

  I put Liam into his high chair and mashed some carrots for his meal. Bridie begged to feed them to him, so I took the opportunity to slip across the street to Gus and Sid. I found Sid at the stove, cooking feverishly, while Gus was surrounded by textbooks in the German language.

  “Drat and blast,” she was saying as I came into the kitchen, “what does gewalt mean again? I know wald is forest, but I don’t see how a forest fits into this sentence.”

  “I’ll look it up for you.” Sid went over to an enormous dictionary. “Really, German is such an annoying language,” she said as she flicked through pages. “Too many words. Here we are. Gewalt. Violence. Force.”

  “Ah, that makes more sense.” Gus looked up at me and smiled. “I’m trying to continue my studies, but it’s not easy because all of the books are in German. Any luck with your doctor?”

  “I found him, but he’s returning to Germany in two days,” I said.

  “How frustrating. So near and yet so far,” Gus said. “Did he have any advice for us?”

  “He said the snake image might just be the universal monster of our nightmares, the embodiment of her fear that night, and he warned against trying to read too much into Mabel’s dreams. He also stressed that she needs the help of a trained alienist if she is suffering from amnesia.”

  “We know that,” Gus said testily. “But the question is where to find one.”

  “He did mention the name of a German doctor who had been working with Freud but came over here earlier this year. A Dr. Otto Werner.”

  Gus looked at Sid with an excited expression on her face. “We heard that name, didn’t we? Do you remember at that little wine cellar, someone said it was too bad we weren’t in New York, or we could have entertained Dr. Werner while he was visiting America. They spoke highly of him. He’s supposed to be brilliant. Did your doctor know where we might find him?”

  “He didn’t. He said he had invited Dr. Werner to dinner once and not received a reply, so he concluded the doctor had left the city and was traveling around the States. And he’d since disposed of the address. He thought it might be somewhere near Astor Place.”

  “Someone must know where he is,” Sid said, slapping a fist against her palm as if she was itching for action. “If he’s speaking to learned societies, then the professors at the university here will know of him. We’ll go and ask tomorrow.”

  “Let’s hope he hasn’t already returned home to Europe,” Gus said. “That would be just our luck.”

  “No negative thoughts allowed,” Sid said firmly. “Remember what else we learned in Vienna. If you voice your negative thoughts, you invite them in a
nd turn them into reality.”

  “I know. And if you repeat positive images they will become reality. All right: we are going to find Dr. Werner and make Mabel well. We are going to find Dr. Werner and make Mabel well.”

  “How many times do you have to repeat it?” I asked, laughing.

  “As many as it takes.”

  “Is this based on a scientific principle?” I asked.

  “Certainly. There are promising results in the field of hypnosis for curing ailments of the mind,” Gus said. “And this is a type of self-hypnosis. If you say something often enough, you believe it.”

  “Amazing,” I said. “What will they think of next?”

  “So we won’t go see Mabel again until we know if we can trace this Dr. Werner,” Sid said. “Molly is quite right in what she’s told us. Mabel is in a fragile state. We must be careful not to say or do the wrong thing.”

  “I’m concerned that Lieutenant Yeats will say or do the wrong thing,” I said. “I hope that Daniel can intervene or pull rank or whatever they do in the police force, but Daniel’s got so much on his plate himself at the moment.”

  “Still looking into a string of murders, you say?” Sid asked. “Any progress?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Then you should help him, Molly. Whether he likes it or not.”

  “I happen to have a few ideas,” I said, and we exchanged a smile. “I’d better return home, I suppose. I slipped away while Bridie was feeding Liam his lunch.”

  “What a lovely girl she’s turned out to be,” Sid said. “A great help to you, Molly. You should keep her with you, if your mother-in-law can spare her.”

  “My mother-in-law actually suggested the same thing,” I said. “She wants Bridie to be able to continue her education and go to school, and have a chance to meet other children.”

  Sid smiled. “Well, there’s a turn-up for the books. So much for training her to be a maid.”

  “It’s been quite clear to me for some time that Bridie wasn’t destined to be anyone’s maid,” I said. “Mrs. Sullivan has been raising her to be a young lady.”